an illustration of balance
by foryoualullaby
Summary: An AU in which Gilbert is a jobless freeloader-turned-starving artist. PruHun, with Spain/Belgium and France/England in the background.
1. Chapter 1

(To define one certain beginning would be near impossible. Usually it is. And really the events are so convoluted, twisted and bound so inexorably, that it's too hard to separate them and that's what beginnings are all about. It could have started the day Elizaveta went away; it could have started when Gilbert first picked up a paintbrush, or the day he dropped out of college. Hell, it could have started the day he walked into the library and saw a little yellow bird singing outside the window like he hadn't a care in the world. But there're too many little details in there, and they add to the story in all the wrong ways. If you got right down to it, it — this switch in time, whatever it is — starts the day he lost his job at that dingy little pizzeria down the street.)

He hadn't realized just how easily offended that one short Italian could be. The tray had fallen, and it'd been _totally on accident,_ and it wasn't like he was going to apologize, and so — well, it had ended in a shoving match, and Gilbert always had prided himself on his strength. Feliciano, sweet boy he was, had tried to separate the two of them only to receive an elbow to the face and various profanities in Italian and German. And then their grandfather — he owned the pizzeria. Friendly guy, Gilbert had always thought, and a family friend — had stepped into the picture and Gilbert had found himself tossed out on the doorstep. And that had been that, really.

And so it is that Gilbert returns home with bruises and scrapes in lieu of paycheck. The flat is quiet when he clicks the lock open and steps inside — it's always quiet, no surprise there. Everything about Ludwig is quiet so it only makes sense that his home would be, too, until him and Gilbert get into the usual shouting match. "'M home," he calls brusquely, tossing his coat onto the couch. Ludwig promptly steps in and hangs it on the hook near the door, giving Gilbert a look. Then:

"What happened to you?" along with a stern look and — is that a hint of concern? _How sweet_, Gilbert thinks.

"Ah, work." Gilbert shrugs, smiles at Ludwig. "Or, uh. The lack thereof."

Ludwig stares for a long while; Gilbert considers just going to his room. Finally he asks, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Hum. I. I haven't got a job anymore."

"And why is that?"

"Dunno," is all Gilbert says, because Gilbert is Gilbert and Gilbert does not admit his mistakes (because he doesn't _make_ any, of course). "Look, it's no big deal, I just — "

"Do you know how difficult it was for me to get you that job?"

Gilbert rolls his eyes. "Aw, Luddy, our gradfathers are friends! How hard could it have b — "

"Who else would have let you near a cash register? Or an _oven_?" Ludwig is slowly turning red, contrasting sharply with crackling blue eyes.

"Well, it's! It's only a minor setback, I can get another job just like that!" and he snaps his fingers for good measure. "It'll be just fine, don't you worry!"

And Ludwig almost —_almost_ — believes him.

But before they know it it's been two months, two months of Gilbert sitting on the couch flipping through magazines or being on Facebook and assuring Ludwig that he'll get a job _eventually_. And one day Ludwig decides _enough is enough_ because he can't afford to have freeloaders, blood or not.

Gilbert is sitting on the couch watching some weird movie in Japanese when Ludwig slams a suitcase down next to him. Gilbert gives a start, glances over at Ludwig and frowns deep. "I'm _watching_ something."

"Not anymore, you're not," Ludwig says sharply, gesturing to the suitcase. "It's time to go now."

Gilbert blinks. "Go? Where? On a trip?"

"I don't care. _Away._" Ludwig is pacing, from the living room to the kitchen where he gets his wallet and back to the living room where he pulls out a wad of notes and a handful of change. "Here, you can take this and live off it till you find a place to live and a _job_. I can't pay for both of us on my own, and you obviously are not going to find a job until you have some sort of_motivation_."

"But. I." Gilbert opens his mouth to talk some more, closes and opens and closes before his jaw sets resolutely and he stands up. "Well. Well, fine, if you're going to throw your own blood brother out into the cold — "

"It's April—"

"— then that's perfectly fine. Go on and be heartless. Mooching off my little brother could hardly be considered awesome, anyway, since I don't need your support."

"Yes, Gilbert, that is _exactly_ what I am trying to _tell_ you," Ludwig says, if only to assuage Gilbert's ego. "So go on, now, before I throw you out on your own."

Gilbert just sits there for a while — because this is coming as quite a bit of a shock, this. Well, maybe not. Money's been tight lately, so in a couple days he'll understand and he'll forgive Ludwig. But for now — for now his movements are sharp as a knife and he pushes Ludwig out of his way with his shoulder as he picks up the bag his brother's packed him. Then, no goodbye, no glance over his shoulder, he storms out to — well, to. To do something, somewhere.

It's raining when he steps outside (of course) and (of course) he hasn't got an umbrella to stop the droplets from falling one, two, three on top of his head on and on. And then he gets an idea: _Antonio and Francis._ He hasn't talked to them since he'd been fired, but. But, well, certainly they'd be willing to help him if only for a month or so. It's ten blocks from his place to Francis and Antonio's; he's soaked by the time he shows up at their door.

He knocks, and it's a long while before finally a tall, sleepy-looking Antonio answers the door. "Ah, we don — " Green eyes go wide, and Antonio presses his face against his screen door. "Gilbert? It's you! Ha! Took you long enough to get in touch!"

Gilbert backs away, tries a smile and fails. Antonio's enthusiasm is… uplifting, to say the least, but he's in no mood for it now. "Y… Yeah, s'me. 'Sup."

"What brings you here, Gil?" The Spaniard steps back to work with the lock; the door clicks open, and Gilbert storms in and tosses his bag on the couch.

"Ludwig kicked me out," Gilbert says, and Antonio might have asked why except the set of Gilbert's shoulders as he turns his back on him tells him he oughtn't. "Where's Francis?"

Antonio shrugs. "On a date. He's keeping up a stable relationship, did you know?" He pauses. "Well, okay, maybe not… stable, per se, but I m — "

"Will he be home tonight?" Gilbert interjects.

"Maybe, he usually is."

"I'm sleeping on his bed tonight," he says, and heads off to the room they share, and Antonio hurries after him.

"Gil, I said he might be c — "

"I don't care," Gilbert snaps, and the evening's only just begun but Gilbert closes the door to Francis and Antonio's room and goes to sleep almost instantly.

Later that night — early in the morning, maybe, it's hard to tell with this much alcohol in his system — Francis comes home to find the lights all off. He guesses Antonio turned in early, which is normal enough since all Toni does is sleep, it seems like, anyway.

He makes his way to his room clumsily, nearly knocking the endtable by the couch over in the process, but when he peeks inside he finds that there's someone else on his bed. He almost calls out _Gilbert_? but he has the common sense not to because that would wake Antonio. Francis pouts and bites at his lip, trying to figure out how to get Gilbert off his bed and onto the couch without making him angry, because Gilbert is vicious when he's angry. He's resolved to just do it, to just go over there and shake him awake, but then he looks, really looks, and. Gilbert, just laying there, all quiet snuffles and limbs splayed at sharp angles taking up the whole bed as a child might, is kind of really adorable. And so that night, Francis sleeps on the couch.

(The important things rarely need an explanation. So when, the next day, Gilbert holes himself away in the room with a few things of paint and a tall easel, Francis and Antonio don't ask why. They don't understand the reasons quite yet, but they will soon enough and without any words it is decided that they'll let Gilbert figure out why for himself first. And then they'll follow.

It's been six months since Gilbert touched a paintbrush; Antonio and Francis know because that was when Gilbert stopped talking about high school and somehow in Gilbert's mind the two things are linked in a strange sort of way. He's said time and time again that he's over what happened then, but now they're finally starting to believe he might be getting there.)


	2. Chapter 2

_or, in which Gilbert rediscovers the enjoyment one can find in not drinking alone._

The flat smells faintly of Francis's cigarette smoke, of Antonio's cologne and, since recently, of Gilbert's paints. It's a pleasant thing, to them; it's theirs. Something they keep, a small, intangible treasure just like how Francis's CD case sits next to Antonio's guitar, atop a tall stack of books in Spanish and French.

They've got a schedule between them: from five in the morning to seven in the evening Francis is at school, then the local cafe as a waiter. Six in the evening to nine later that night Antonio plays guitar for rich people at a rich people's restaurant, making just enough money for rent and the few groceries that Francis needs to make his own sort of magic in the kitchen. And most days find Gilbert in the park with his paints from one to seven-thirty, or until he gets bored and decides to head home. After that the night is theirs, and they all share a pack of beers and watch whatever movies they can find on TV. Tonight it's Shaun of the Dead, for the third time that month, and they're still trying to figure out who's who in terms of them.

Francis insists that Arthur — whom Antonio and Gilbert have still not met, though Antonio can vaguely recall frequent scuffles between them back in primary school — is Liz, which of course makes Francis Shaun.

"That's dumb," Gilbert declares between sips of beer. "Seriously. _You_ are nothing _like_ Shaun. Obviously I am Shaun. But you can be Ed."

Antonio laughs and turns to Gilbert. "Oh? Who's Liz, then?"

And Francis and Antonio know what the obvious answer is, and they feel that beat of hesitation. But then Gilbert says, "You, of course," and they're all agreed on that point even though Antonio is nothing like Liz. Lovino is Shaun's annoying flatmate — despite Antonio's adamant refutation on that — and Ludwig is Phil. And this ruins the movie a little bit, because picturing Liz as Antonio severely diminishes what little sex appeal she has. By the end they're all asleep against each other, Antonio's face mushed into Francis's chest and Francis's feet pushing into Gilbert's side. If they could see each other now they'd laugh, but there's no one at all to witness this — this, whatever it is, but it's nothing new, really. Just something Gilbert hasn't been a part of for a long while. And the moment has passed when Francis gets up in the morning to go to school, carefully, so carefully, movements whisper-soft. And they go their separate ways.

Gilbert likes to paint the things behind people. Scenery, mostly. It tells a story, more so than the people in the foreground. Here is a brilliant sky, blindingly bright with the afternoon sun. And here, a bed of flowers, and miniscule grains of pollen carried on the wind. There, the green of grass bent to the sun. And there, the reflection on a puddle that hasn't yet evaporated. Then, the horizon. Start at the bottom and move on from there. Gilbert had forgotten just how good the feeling is, but his hands still remember and they capture the park on canvas like so many butterflies in a net.

People stop to look over his shoulder; sometimes they tell him how good he is or how gorgeous his paintings look. But mostly they just stop, and stare for a while, before they move on. He loves it, naturally. Each boost to his ego is something he treasures. He knows it isn't right, but that is in part what makes him want to paint. They won't notice him otherwise, so he _makes_them.

Today it's bright, and the sun is warm on his skin, and that is nice. For a minute or two he sets his paints and brush aside and tilts his head back, eyes closed. It's the same sun, but it feels different whenever he bothers to notice it. It's the perfect day to be out, and so he stays on that bench and just paints until around seven when he decides to head back.

When he comes home Francis is sitting on the couch in his pyjamas, knees tucked underneath him and laptop perched on his lap. His hair is back, as it usually is when he's relaxing despite Gilbert's remark that he looks rather like a girl when he does that. The _clack clack_ of the laptop keys is barely audible over How Soon Is Now? and Francis is singing along (which is funny, because Francis always says he _hates_ The Smiths, but Gilbert hasn't any inclination to incite the rage of Francis so he doesn't say anything). He pauses the music when he hears the door close, though, and he glances up.

"Oh. Hello," he says, adjusting his reading glasses on his nose. "You're back early. Have fun?"

"It was nice out." Gilbert heads into the room to set his paints and artpad on the windowsill. "Lots of people out, too," he calls as heads back into the living room.

Francis smiles at him before turning back to his laptop. "That's good to hear." The silence is filled with the click of Francis's fingers on the keyboard. Then: "Oh, right. Look, I have an important paper due tomorrow, so do you think you could maybe cook tonight? There are a couple cans of soup in the cabinet for you to heat up." Without waiting for his answer, Francis goes back to typing. Gilbert goes into the kitchen to find said cans of soup. There's chicken noodle, beef stew, Italian wedding soup — how long have they been stocking these up? — and Gilbert stands there and thinks it over for a bit before he decides he's in the mood for chicken noodle; and anyway, Antonio'll likely bring back some leftovers as well.

They eat it in the living room with two glasses of orange juice and their feet on the coffee table, and in the background there's Edith Piaf, whose music Gilbert hates but Francis loves and so today Gilbert tolerates it. Francis is efficient, so he's about halfway done with his paper by the time Antonio opens the door and greets them with a warm, "Evening!" before hopping onto the couch beside Gilbert.

"Hello," Francis says absently, pausing to quickly wave with one hand. Gilbert grins, nods at him.

"How'd it go tonight?"

Antonio shrugs. "Not bad. Busy; lots of people, you know. But generous tippers, all of them." Antonio digs into his pockets and pulls out a wad of notes, dropping them on the table with an accomplished smile. "Look'it that, eh!"

"Nice," Gilbert says, and whistles appreciatively.

"And Belle and I are going out tomorrow, so I can take her somewhere nice and I'll be the one to pay, for once." Antonio seems awfully proud of this. Gilbert can't help but be a little endeared with the stupid grin on his face.

"Bet you two'll have lots of fun, eh?" Gilbert leers, and is rewarded with Francis's elbow to his gut.

"Don't be so vulgar, Gilbert."

"But you know they've been — ow!"

And Gilbert and Francis both have a good laugh at the Spaniard's blush. "Quiet, both of you," he grumbles. He adds, "I just want to take her somewhere romantic, okay?"

"French restaurants are as romantic as it gets." Francis grins at Antonio, giving him a thumbs-up.

Gilbert rolls his eyes. "There's nothing so romantic as a plate of snails for dinner, eh, Tonio?"

"Gilbert, let's not forget who owns this flat, hmm?" Francis sniffs. "And anyway, what would _you_ know about romance? You haven't been on a date since E…" Pause. Gilbert keeps his face passive. "Since high school, so don't pretend you have any more experience that me."

"You can't even hold a relationship for more than two weeks!"

"I've been with Arthur for a month."

"A fluke," Gilbert snorts. "And you shout at him over the phone."

"Lovers' quarrels, I assure you."

"Sexual tension, more like," Antonio chips in.

"I'm going to go back to my paper and pretend you two don't exist." And with that, Francis is once again silent.

The rest of the night is quiet (Francis's deadline days always are), and Gilbert and Antonio spend it over a shared can of beer and a pack of cards. It's calm, and it's relaxed, and it's a little strange, too, because Gilbert had gotten so used to being on his own (he always had Ludwig, but Ludwig doesn't count, not realy). It's a welcome change from the past two months. Just — nice, this. Antonio's lazy smile is nice; Francis singing along to his music is nice, as is the closeness of their quaint living room and it's a little like being seventeen again. And he still feels a little bit lost, very insecure, but now he couldn't be happier.

Friday, it rains. It doesn't pour, it isn't a rainstorm. It's a light drizzle, one that cools the skin and cleanses the air. Gilbert loves the smell of rain, breathes it in as he steps out with his artpad under his arm, his paints in a messenger bag on his shoulder, and a red umbrella over his head. He wants to paint this moment, and illustrate the smell of the earth and the rain, right here, right now. Maybe he will; he can imagine how it'll look, all soft strokes on paper. Blues and greens and maybe a little bit of yellow.

The park is mostly empty when he gets there but for the few couples sharing an umbrella. He drapes his jacket over the bench and sits himself down, propping his art pad over his legs. It takes him a good ten minutes of careful painting to notice there's someone watching him. Blinking, he turns to the short brown-haired boy beside him.

"Um," Gilbert says. "Um."

"Hi." The boy smiles shyly and looks off to the side before back at Gilbert. "You paint very well."

"Well. Thanks, I guess."

The boy nods, points to the sky. "Especially the clouds. Um. Have you, like. Have you considered maybe selling your work? I have a friend who might be interested in buying your work, or at least meeting you to talk about painting and. Stuff. His name's Toris."

"Is it, now," Gilbert murmurs, glancing back over at his paintings. "Haven't considered putting this crap up for sale. You think people'd buy it?"

"Of course! I mean, it's — it's really pretty."

"Huh," Gilbert says. Then again, "Huh." He smiles at the boy and reaches over, ruffles his hair. "I'll think about it. And tell your friend to maybe meet me here one of these days. I'm Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt."

Then Gilbert goes back to painting, and the boy watches the sky fold itself onto a piece of paper. He can swear he can smell the rain coming off it.


	3. Chapter 3

Early in the mornings, Gilbert likes to paint war. He dreams of it at night, battles from long ago that play themselves in his head like he's there. Or he_is_ there, on a great black horse among the clamor and the bloodlust. The sound of metal to metal doesn't make him flinch as it might in the real world; he charges headlong into it with his sword high. And when he wakes he puts them on canvas while they're still fresh in his mind; by the end of the month his dreams will be hanging everywhere on the living room wall. Francis complains about them, but no one's made to take them down yet. Francis doesn't like war, but he can appreciate the aesthetics. His own sketches hang opposite, portraits of saints and a blue-eyed girl with a radiant smile. Gilbert isn't sure who she is, but he likes to pretend he knows the story. It's a strange juxtaposition between them, like so many people looking out at wars and skylines and prairies or maybe they're looking at the people. It's another one of those things not tangible but existent nonetheless.

Over the next week, Ludwig calls and texts Gilbert twice daily. It starts the day he comes home from his meeting with the boy in the park, and his mobile rings. He almost answers it — he is expecting a call from Antonio right then — but when he sees the caller ID he hits "ignore" and continues on his way. Ten minutes later he gets a text:

_gilbert, call me when you get this._

"Sure thing, little brother," Gilbert snorts, and shoves his mobile into his pocket. Following that day Ludwig continues to call and text till one day he finally tries calling Francis. Francis is as civil as possible and tells him that yes, Gilbert is with them, and he is still very much alive and _sort of_ being productive. Ludwig stops calling after that, but he still sends Gilbert the occasional text just to say hello. Never an apology, though, and that's what Gilbert is really expecting even if it's not what he deserves.

It's been a while since the last time Gilbert actually went out with his friends, so it's only half a surprise when one Saturday Antonio looks up from his crossword puzzle and says, "I was thinking we could go drinking tonight?"

"You an' Francis an' me?"

"And Arthur," Antonio adds, and Gilbert cringes.

"Ew, but what if he and Francis start acting all gooey? Francis is always — "

Antonio snickers. "Don't think we'll have to worry about that; judging from Francis's conversations with him, Arthur would sooner cut off his arm than try and be 'romantic'. Besides, we really ought to meet him. Francis says he'd like that, since he talks about us so often."

"Aww, does he, now?" Gilbert sneers. "Well, I s'pose it'd be nice to meet him, yeah. Sure, sounds good. Been a while since I've had a night out." And so it is that he and Antonio find themselves at the bar two blocks down, waiting outside for Arthur and Francis.

When Arthur and Francis finally make their way there, Francis is under an umbrella but Arthur is absolutely drenched.

"I don't want to share a sodding umbrella with you, that's just — it's cliché, is what it is, and I'm not going to have it!" Arthur is saying, quite loudly, with his arms folded tight over his chest; he's shivering a bit, but hiding it well. And his eyebrows — they're furrowed together so they're just one big eyebrow, and that's a little comical and Francis apparently thinks so, too. "I don't want it to look like — like I _like_ you."

"No, we couldn't have that, could we?" Francis murmurs, rolling his eyes. "Hello to the two of you, by the way. Arthur, this is Gilbert and Antonio. You guys, this is Arthur."

"Arthur Kirkland. It's, er. Nice to meet you." Arthur tries a smile, and while his eyes smile his lips falter and twitch so it looks rather like he just smelled something terrible.

"Pleasure," Antonio grins, taking Arthur's hand and shaking it briskly. Gilbert says nothing. He's still looking at Arthur, frown on his face.

Silence follows. "Right, so," Arthur begins finally. "On we go," and he heads inside with Francis. Antonio turns to Gilbert.

"Don't like him," Gilbert shrugs. "C'mon then."

The bar is loud, the way Gilbert can remember, and he easily falls back into the usual rhythm of the place. The music is catchy; Gilbert hums along, grinning over at Antonio and Francis. They smile back, albeit a little uncertainly. Arthur's just sitting there, looking very uncomfortable but when Francis goes to pull him into their little circle he just flushes and pulls away.

"So," Antonio says, seating himself next to the Briton and taking a long sip of beer. "What do you do for a living?"

Arthur glances at him, blinking slowly. "Ah, well. I'm majoring in English, actually. 'D like to be a writer."

"And he is a wonderful writer, too," Francis adds, grinning, and all that earns him is a swat at his head. He grumbles, "Well," and goes back to a conversation he'd started with a pretty redhead on his right (as it turns out, Gilbert didn't have to worry about Francis being all over Arthur because Francis is all over everyone else; jealously seems to be the only way to earn affection from the Briton.)

Gilbert hardly listens to conversations between Francis and Antonio and Arthur, focusing instead on the pulse of the music. He doesn't dance, but suddenly he rather wants to and so he takes Antonio's arm and leads him into the center. Antonio laughs a bit, shrugging easily and following him (Francis tries to drag Arthur in but he isn't quite drunk enough yet).

They way they dance is less dancing and more outright _flailing_. Gilbert's always been an awkward dancer; Antonio just enjoys making a fool of himself in public. The lights are low and neither is able to really see the other, and the pulse of the music is frenzied and so is the way they dance, because Gilbert's forgotten what "reserved" means (did he ever really know?). It draws them some strange looks and they don't even care, because this is _fun_. Gilbert had never thought that being a moron in public could be so entertaining but it is, and by the end of the fifth song the two of them are tired and panting, stumbling against each other as they wait to regain their breath.

"You dance spectacularly," Antonio teases when they sit back down near Arthur and Francis (Arthur by this point is quite drunk, for his tolerance for alcohol is absolutely ridiculous, and is at present leaning heavily on Francis's shoulder blathering on about everything to everyone who'll listen). Gilbert rolls his eyes, playfully swats at Antonio's head.

"Could say the same about you," he mutters, ordering another beer. He goes on a bit in silence till he hears "Elizavéta;" then he's suddenly paying quite a bit of attention to Antonio's and Arthur's conversation.

"She's coming back to town?" Antonio asks in a low whisper, leaning in close to Arthur.

"Yeh, she. For good, think she said? Dunno, could be. She called t'other day, 's weird 'cos we never talk, y'know." Arthur gesticulates drunkenly, hands moving this way and that and he very nearly hits Francis's head.

"What about Liz?" Gilbert interjects, and Antonio abruptly goes silent. Arthur, however, is too drunk to know the meaning of the word "tact".

"She's comin' in next Wednesday!" he announces, perhaps a little too loud as he tries to talk over the music. "T'visit all 'er old friends an' that. 'Er maybe she said she was movin'? Forgot. Anyhow she's comin' alone." He snickers. "Wonder whot 'appened to her an' that cranky pianist, eh." And Gilbert wonders, too.


	4. Chapter 4

Sunday morning finds Gilbert on his couch with Francis's yearbook and a nasty hangover. Yawning ferociously he flips open the book and curls up as he turns to the first page.

The first few pages are all lowerclassmen, and Gilbert smiles when he spots a younger Ludwig staring blankly out at him, blond hair slicked back and mouth set. _He still looks just the same._ He spots the Italian brothers toward the end of their class, one smiling and looking generally adorable and the other scowling at the camera. Gilbert doesn't remember ever having gone to school with either of them, but they'd traveled in different circles. He can maybe recall a few words about them from Ludwig, but mostly he remembers pushing Lovino around three months ago.

He skips the next class and goes to find his own. Francis on the second page, all charming smile and smart blue eyes with his light hair tied back; Gilbert's a couple pictures over. He'd looked partcularly good that morning, and he'd made the photographer take three pictures just in case he'd blinked in one of them. Antonio is the next page over. He'd still had longer hair then, and Gilbert can remember helping him style it the night prior even though caring about the way one's hair looks is decidedly not awesome. It is a very Francis thing to do, and Gilbert hadn't wanted another Francis. Still doesn't.

Where Roderich's picture was is a solid black square, drawn in Sharpie and scribbled over in pink highlighter for good measure. Gilbert grits his teeth, folds his arms tightly over his chest. And it's a stupid thing, getting worked up over something that happened in high school when it's been _years_, but it still puts him on edge because he knows the whole thing was _his_ fault. But — but he'll never admit that, and maybe that's why Liz didn't stick around. Didn't even look back.

And Liz's picture is scribbled out, too, and if Gilbert looks close enough he can see where he'd written "WHORE" and scratched it out an instant later (Francis had gotten annoyed with him over that, had emasculated him for marking up his yearbook, especially on Roderich because at the time Francis had rather admired him for whatever reason). Gilbert frowns and tries to rub out the ink on Liz's face; he very nearly rips the page trying to do it. But of course the ink's still there because permanent marker is, as it turns out, actually very permanent. He closes his eyes and slams the book shut, tilts his head back and remembers school and Elizavéta before Roderich.

Or he begins to, but before he can let himself indulge in that he rises abruptly to his feet and storms into the kitchen for a cup of coffee because he can't do this whole remembering thing — not quite yet, anyway. Instead he grabs his artpad and his set of paints, pulls on a light jacket, and heads outside (and Arthur finally comes out of hiding with a worse hangover than Gilbert; hadn't come out earlier for fear he'd scare Gilbert to death, or on the other hand be teased in some way about his conduct the night prior. He sits down on the chair with a cup of tea and flips on the television, not knowing Gilbert all that well but thinking that he looks a tiny bit lonely and for some reason that distracts him from the morning news).

When Gilbert arrives at the park he finds that there's someone already occupying his usual bench, someone with long brown hair and downcast eyes, with a cup of hot chocolate in one hand and his cellphone in the other. Sighing, he wordlessly sits beside him and turns his head. The man looks up.

"Oh," he says, blinking a little bit dumbly. Gilbert senses he may have torn him from a daydream of some sort. Francis would have liked to put that expression he's wearing to paper. "Oh. Hello there, I. Hey, um. Wait. You're… Gilbert, aren't you? Gilbert Beilschmidt?" Gilbert nods and opens his mouth to ask how he knows him, but the man continues: "Raivis told me about you. He met you here a while ago, you remember? I'm Toris."

Gilbert does remember, very vaguely. "Oh, you're… You wanted to, ah, commission me or something, right?"

"Yeah, I — " Toris breaks off and digs into his pockets, eventually pulling out a piece of paper which he promptly turns over to Gilbert to look at.

It takes Gilbert a second to realize, so worn and torn is the paper in his hands, that he's holding a photograph. He looks closer; there's a house, a big, old-looking house surrounded by untamed grass. There's a little boy there, violet eyes sparkling as he smiles, caught in the middle of tending to a small bed of sunflowers (and those sunflowers died a week later, but they still exist on photographs). And there's a story behind this photograph, and Gilbert doesn't usually care about this sort of thing but it's sort of touching, in a way. The sort of thing Antonio would write a song about. But it's all so faded, so charred looking. Gilbert glances up at Toris, his question unspoken.

"There was a fire," Toris explains. "It isn't my picture — it's my friend's, he's there." Toris points to the sunny-eyed boy in the photograph. "His flat caught fire last month, and so did his photo album. Most of them burned, but he managed to save this one. Well, sort of. But now this is the last thing he has from his home in Russia, so I was wondering if… if you could maybe paint it?"

"Uh." Gilbert looks from Toris to the photograph, and back again. "I mean, I…"

"I can pay you, of course I plan to," Toris says quickly.

Gilbert waves him away. "No, no, shut up. We'll talk about that later. 'Course I'll do it! And it'll be awesome, I promise. A masterpiece!" He grins, and Toris does too because Gilbert is infectuous and it feels good to smile with him.

"Thank you," Toris says quickly, and the way he says it one would think Gilbert just donated his heart to the bloke. "Really, just. _Thank_ you."

"Ah, it's — don't worry it," Gbert mutters, voice brusque. He can feel his face pinkening a little, because the way Toris is looking at him now is a little bit embarrassing. "Christ, relax. I'm not a saint or anything.

"I know."

Gilbert smiles the whole way home. He hadn't gotten any painting done, but that doesn't even matter. It's kind of nice, doing good things for people that aren't him. Gilbert commits the feeling to memory. This is what normal is, he thinks. It's his second taste of it in two months.


End file.
